


Where We Thought We'd Be

by seal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seal/pseuds/seal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s actually Jackson that starts the ball rolling for Stiles’ sex life.</p><p>a.k.a. Derek is possessive and Stiles is having none of it, that is, until he kind of does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where We Thought We'd Be

It’s actually Jackson that starts the ball rolling for Stiles’ sex life.

No one is more surprised about this than Stiles. He would go and thank the bastard, but there’s a good chance this might result in some undesirable throat ripping to be inflicted upon his person, and that’s not very appealing. Especially now since he’s having so much great sex. Considering that he expected to be _that guy_ , the one who unwillingly stays a virgin until he made enough money to buy a prostitute who didn’t laugh at the sight of him, this whole sex thing is quite an improvement on his life plan.

Stiles figured that he should at least take advantage such fortune and try to keep away from activities that may result in throat ripping. So he decided not to thank Jackson about the whole sex thing.

He probably should have. It would’ve cleared up a few unfortunate misunderstandings and made his life so much easier.

-

In some ways, Jackson’s transition into being a werewolf is much more smooth than Scott’s. For one, he has a better understanding of what to expect after he received the bite and he didn’t try to attend a party during his first full moon. For another, Derek is not a crazy psychopath who basically abandoned a newly minted pack member to pretend to be catatonic in a hospital. Jackson took to the bite like Scott did. He completely healed by the next morning and back into school like nothing ever happened.

While all of these points are good and valid, this does not mean that Jackson is any less of an asshole after he turned. 

In fact, now that he can go toe to toe with Scott on the field, he is even more of an jerk than usual. 

Which is saying something.

Scott can handle most of it. He’s been a werewolf longer and has the speed and stamina to weather Jackson’s aggression. Unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t. He gets shoved around and knocked over with alarming frequency whenever he gets too close and those hits _hurt_.

It’s so unfair, Stiles thinks as he lays sprawled awkwardly on the ground, blearily looking up at the sky as it spins. Typical Stiles Stilinski luck that he might actually have some permanent brain damage from that last tackle two weeks before the end of the season. There is also a chance he may not remember how to get up properly. If Jackson has done some actual damage, Stiles plans to go and buy a dog whistle and use it with great prejudice. That’ll show him.

Eventually, a red mask spins into his field of vision. It gives him something to focus on. 

Distantly, he hears Scott’s voice calling out to him.

It a little disconcerting how long it takes him to put together the mask swimming in his vision and Scott’s voice. He blinks some more,wondering when the world will stop pitching sideways.

“-hey, man, can you hear me?” is the first real words that Stiles can process.

His head is still ringing a bit, but the white noise is slowly fading. That should be a good sign, right?

Hopefully?

“Stiles?” Scott has his mask off now, and his face is closer. Oh, he’s kneeling, that explains it.

“Yer eyes er yelloo,” Stiles slurs out. Because they are. Shining and yellow. Stiles is such a good friend, warning Scott even when he can’t even piece words together properly. He should get a medal, a shiny silver medal so he can take it and beat Scott over the head with it. Maybe it’ll finally settle in Scott’s brain that this werewolf thing should be kept a _secret_. 

Scott turns away for a moment, presumably to calm himself down. When he turns back, his eyes are brown again. 

“The medic is coming over,” Scott says and holds up two fingers, or is it four? No, now it’s three, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Twenty,” Stiles says to be stubborn, because obviously, Scott is messing with him, changing the number of fingers like that. 

Scott frowns and then turns his attention upwards with a glare.

Stiles cranes his head backwards to follow the line of sight and sees an upside down Jackson standing a little ways from them and his expression is, strangely, a little contrite. 

It’s a weird look on him. Stiles likes it.

Then the medic comes over, introduces himself as George and asks a bunch of confusing questions about today’s date and the place they’re at and who he is. It’s patently unfair that he is the only one with this pop quiz, test, whatever. He doesn’t see Scott answering these hard questions. Stiles is pretty sure he fails spectacularly, but it’s okay, there will always be extra credit to make up for it.

“This isn’t a test, Bilinski,” Coach Finstock says out of nowhere. Where did he come from? He’s awfully close.

“I came from the bleachers,” Coach answers. Woah, can he read minds?

“No, you’re thinking out loud,” Scott answers. 

Oh. Then in that case, _Am I dying?_ he thinks at the medic, _Are my brains leaking out from my head and I’ve only got a few minutes to live?_ Is my tombstone going to read: Stiles Stilinski, died of brain leakage? Oh god, what will his dad say about this? 

George the medic looks at him pityingly. “He needs to go to the hospital,” he concludes. 

_Will I get candy if I go?_ Stiles thinks.

“That depends on whether or not you throw up on my shoes in the ambulance,” George the medic answers. 

Stiles does throw up in the ambulance, but he misses George’s shoes by about two inches. 

Later, he would find two pieces of Jolly Ranchers and an orange tootsie pop next to his pillow. Not exactly the most appetizing of offerings, but it’s free candy nonetheless and it still counts as a win.

-

The next time Stiles is lucid, he sees his father sitting on one of those horrifically uncomfortable hospital chairs and reading a newspaper.

“Water,” Stiles croaks, which actually comes out more as, “Erugh.” His mouth is one filthy hot mess of disgusting unmentionables and dry as a desert. But he gets his dad’s attention and that’s all that matters. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” his dad says and offers up a styrofoam cup containing some precious, life saving water like he’s a mind reader. 

Stiles’ higher brain function is not responsible for the inhuman noise and the grabby-hands motions he makes in a bid to get to the water. He needs it as badly as he need air and he goes through two full cups before he asks, thankfully in a voice that doesn’t crack, “So, no brain leakage?”

“Not for the lack of trying. You had a minor concussion, which the doctor says is a miracle considering the way you hit the ground,” his dad sighs dramatically and says, “Looks like that thick skull I always complain you have is more than a figure of speech.” 

“You’re a real comedian, dad,” Stiles says while looking morosely at his empty cup. He knows what’s coming next.

“No lacross until further notice.”

Even though he expected it, Stiles’ knee jerk reaction still is to protest. After all, he’s worked so hard to get to first line and this is completely unwarranted, except that it kind of is. He’s clear-headed enough to know that his brain is far more important than two weeks of high school lacrosse, and much as he would like to finish the season, there is almost no chance the coach will allow him back on the field before the final game. 

Stiles can’t help but wonder if Jackson did it on purpose.

-

In the time it takes his father to fill out the paperwork and tend to other miscellaneous bureaucratic crap, Stiles figures that since he’s stuck in the general vicinity he may as well pay a visit to Lydia.

Getting to her room is like an adventure. She was moved out of the ICU earlier in the day, but Stiles doesn’t actually find out about this fact until he’s already entered her former room to find himself staring at two angry looking middle-aged women and an old man on the bed, very a male and very much a senior and very much not Lydia Martin. 

“Sorry, just-...sorry,” Stiles stutters as he backs out the door. 

Hilariously, Lydia is now in the room a few doors down to where Stiles had been. She’s still asleep, but the doctors say she can breathe on her own and doesn’t need around the clock monitoring. She’s doesn’t have a roommate but the man next door has his door open and he snores like a train wreck in progress.

“Hey, Lydia,” he says to her as he pulls up a chair, “How do you like the new scenery?”

The snoring from the other room intensifies and Stiles winces.

“Right,” he takes her lax hand in his. It’s a little warm and her pulse thrums underneath his fingers when it brushes against her wrist. “I’m sorry about all of this,” he says, “It’s not exactly the best, but what can you do, right?”

He feels awkward, which by itself is not anything new, but somehow, the words that usually flow out like a river just aren’t there. 

“Just get better, okay?” he says at last, “We all miss you.”

Stiles exhales, long and tired, and sits with her for a while. He knows it’s useless, but he still wonders if things could have been different if he had somehow gotten to her in time. It’s been almost a month and she has not woken up. The doctors are baffled, but they don’t have the advantage of knowing the source of her bite. They’re treating it like a large animal bite, which is not exactly wrong, but it isn’t helping as much as it should.

Derek, for all that he’s the oldest and most experienced out of the entire group, was still a rather young wolf when he lost his family. He doesn’t know what is going on any more than they do and most of the reliable resources about werewolves burned down with the house. Generally speaking, people either heal within a few days or they die within the same time. Lydia is a deviation from the norm, neither taking to nor rejecting the bite Peter had given her. 

The internet doesn’t help much either, mostly just conflicting information about myths from multiple different sources. Most of it sounds like a bad horror flick from the wild imagination of a stoned teenager. 

As much as everyone hates it, the only thing to do is wait.

-

Stiles is more than ready to go pass out on his bed when he gets home. He manages to return Scott’s texts, take a short shower and brush his teeth before he settles down with his comforter, warm and pulled up to his chin, and gets ready for a good nap. And of course, that’s when his bladder calls.

It’s probably a combination of the lingering concussion and bad timing that has Stiles hitting his head on his nightstand and falling out of his bed after he sees Derek Hale, of all people, standing over his bed like a creepy creeper who creeps. He vaguely wondered if he ripped open a few important vessels with that last knock to the head, as he looks at the man in incredulity. 

“Jesus Christ, Derek.” Stiles says as he cradles his head gingerly, the spot that hit the side of the wood throbs in time with his rapid pulse, “I know you’re not one normal people behavior, like knocking on the door, but can you channel Edward Cullen just a little less? I just got home. I don’t really want to go back to the hospital.”

Derek stays silent. Again, he’s a creepy creeper who creeps. He moves down to the floor and tugs Stiles up.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Stiles asks as he sits up with Derek’s help. He pulls the comforter tangled in his legs off. 

“You should be more careful,” Derek says, as his fingers brush up against the tender spot on Stiles’ head. 

“Really?” Stiles hisses, flinching a bit, “You break into my house to tell me to be more careful?” and then holds his hands up in surrender when Derek growls and his eyes flash red, “Ok, ok, ok, I take that back. Thank you, Mr. Alpha, for caring so much that you would commit a felony to come see me after my little accident.”

Derek frowns at that, “Was it an accident?” He doesn’t aggravate the tender spot, but he doesn’t stop touching Stiles, either. 

“Jackson being a jerk an accident? Not likely,” Stiles mutters.

“He’s giving you trouble?” Derek demands, a sharp edge to his voice that sets Stiles on high alert.

“This is not a new development,” Stiles says flatly, confused as to where this concern is coming from, “Jackson is Jackson and he’s a jerk. Just because he’s a werewolf now doesn’t change things. And why do you care all of a sudden anyway?”

Derek has the audacity to look hesitant, like he didn’t just break into Stiles’ room, “Scott told me you went to the hospital. I came to check on you.”

“Um,” Stiles says slowly, “Thanks?”

This conversation just got super weird. Whatever awkwardness between them is rising exponentially with every second that passes. Stiles wonders how this could possibly get any worse for a moment before he checks himself mentally. This is Derek Hale. Of course it can get worse.

“I’ll have a few words with him,” Derek says suddenly. 

Stiles’ attention snaps back, “I...I’m sorry, what?”

“Jackson,” Derek says, voice firm and eyes dead serious, “I’ll tell him to stop bothering you.”

"What? Why would you need to do that?"

"He should be more careful around you. You're not as...” he visibly struggles to find the word.

Stiles gets it. He’s human. He’s not made to take the harder hits that a werewolf can and to be perfectly honest, there’s only one word for it, “Strong?” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head, “You’re strong.”

And if that isn’t startling, then nothing would be. Stiles feels a little fluttering in his chest, excitement and horror all wrapped up into one mass of confusing tension. Did Derek Hale, Mr. Sour Wolf himself just compliment him? Is this real life? “I think,” Stiles says with a grin spreading across his face, “I think I need a camera. I want to immortalize this piece of history. Derek Hale, you like me.”

It’s dark, but Stiles doesn’t miss the slight startled jump from Derek. 

“Stop grinning,” Derek tries to cover it by rolling his eyes and growling, “Don’t push it.”

“You’re caught,” Stiles croons cheerfully, unable to wipe the wide grin off his face, “You’re not an icicle underneath that frowny face exterior. You’re squishy inside. Tell me, are you chocolate or marshmallow?”

Derek huffs, exasperation lining his voice, “I see this head injury of yours hasn’t changed you at all.” He moves towards the window where came in from, the pane still open. The curtains are waving gently in the breeze and serves as a surreal frame to the silhouette of Derek’s figure standing in front of the almost full moon. When he turns his head to look at Stiles, his eyes are tinged with red and the light outside makes his cheeks glow softly. 

It takes Stiles’ breath away. 

“As I said before, you should be more careful,” Derek says, his entire figure brimming with something Stiles doesn’t recognise and strangely intense against the dark backdrop of the night sky, “Good night.” 

He’s gone before Stiles can say anything.

For a few minutes, Stiles can’t move. He can’t see anything but the imprinted image of Derek standing in front of his window behind his eyelids and he can’t feel anything besides the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. It’s not a new feeling, far from it. He’s pined after Lydia for most of his life, after all. But Derek Hale? Really, libido? Derek?

It’s like lusting after a bear trap. 

Stiles bursts out laughing. He’s still very much confused and a maybe just a little bit freaked out and he sits there on the floor next to his bed for a while just laughing at the whole situation because really, what the hell just happened here?

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> As always, feedback is always loved.


End file.
